Four Floors
by ingeniousmacabre
Summary: It wasn't exactly love at first arrest, but if there's one thing that Killian Jones knows, it's that he does so love a challenge. And if wooing Emma Swan, his bail bondswoman/best friend, is not a challenge, then bloody hell, he doesn't know what is. An Apartment Building AU, if OUAT were a primetime comedy. Ensemble. AH, pre-Captain Swan as Canon (but totally gonna get there) ;)
1. Frenemies

_"So, Mr. Jones. This is quite a work you've got here. Care to share how this all came about?"_

_"Did you mean the story, or the book?"_

* * *

><p>Once upon a time, on a Friday morning:<p>

Apartment 3b

It is 7:00 am. There's a _tap clack tap clack _across the wood flooring of the corridor, and it is loud and steady enough to use as a beat track for a remix. An interesting thought, certainly, except that it's _seven-bloody-am._

Oh _hell_.

Killian counts twelve steps _supposedly _but he hears her burst into the living room in only nine and a half, her long strides telling the short story of his impending demise. He closes his eyes, pulls the laptop screen down, and mentally prepares himself for a shock of—

"Killian! KILLIAN! What the_ hell—"_

She enters his small study area with all the fury of hades itself. _Bloody hell _indeed. Since she _is _his sister, he expects nothing less, of course.

"—is wrong with you?!"

He swivels rather slowly in his computer chair, his face contorted on an already preemptive wince.

"Is this a terrible time to say I love that skirt?"

"_What the hell is this?!_"

She holds up a piece of paper and _shit, _it is exactly what he was hoping it wasn't: a printed copy of her itinerary for today. She wasn't supposed to discover that until later, damn her anal tendencies.

"That, I believe, is the product of a lengthy processing of trees—"

"Don't play coy with me, Killian. You changed my schedule for a… a…" she looks at the fine print somewhere in the middle of her office schedule, "a dentist appointment." She pauses, looks at him, the definition of _Are You Shitting Me _brilliantly captured by her poker face. "_A dentist appointment. _Good _god_—"

"Well, I'm no dentist, but if you need a doctor," remarks Victor Whale, the walking _dead _that happens to be Killian's flatmate. He emerges from the shower with nothing but a towel and a look that is as lecherous as a sleep-deprived surgeon can be, eyebags paired with an attempt at a cheeky grin. Even without sleep, the man has a compulsive radar for opportune flirting, and this is why he is Killian's friend. Kindred spirit and all.

"Not now, Victor," she shushes him, eyes not even caring enough to flit to his form. Victor shrugs and proceeds to the kitchen, dripping all the way. Killian mentally notes to scold him later for this habit.

"Kindly explain this," she says as she flicks the page onto the desk in front of Killian, eyes positively _glowering _with something _not _'kindly'. "And I'm not going to warn you a second time."

He sticks his tongue in his cheek. Ah, bloody _hell._

"And what makes you think that was my doing in the first place?" he replies, a resolutely smartass smirk on his face, effective of his second motto in life: _swagger is when all else fails_. (His _first_ motto is more a name than a motto, so it doesn't really help him right now.)

She looks at him. The intent in her eyes is one of murder_._ The kind wherein they don't find the body.

Irene Jones has never been known for her patience. Cunning, yes. Intellectual prowess and devilish ways, yes. Her nasty tendencies for powerplays and incredibly successful track record in the New York Investment Banking world, very much so. Not to mention her rather _dominating _personality; they say she's got more balls than the United States sports industry, and _she's not even American_. But her patience?

It is about as long as Killian's average relationship status. Which is to say, short enough to be virtually _nonexistent._

Killian sighs, his fingers fly to the bridge of his nose, heavy with the weight of trying his best to care for the people he loves without them ever (_ever, ever_) knowing.

"I want an explanation," she demands. "_Now."_

He flashes the smile of a five-year-old _little shit_ who _does not_ regret his hand in the cookie jar _one bit. _This tactic is going to get him castrated_, _but he is nothing if not committed.

"Well, dear sis, I thought you could use a whitening regimen. I do believe your pearly whites would benefit from a regular upkeep of shade."

From _murderous _to positively _psychotic _is what she looks like.

She levels him a glare, but with a warning smirk (_brother dearest, _she seems to say…), a tick on her jaw (…_I will be back for your bloody corpse_), then she's turning on her heels, clearly not in the morning mood to deal with his little shittiness. "Liam will hear about this!" she calls out as she crashes the door closed so hard that the ceiling visibly shudders.

Killian winces even more. Ah, Liam.

Being the middle child, Killian has always been the odd man out in their little family. While he does his best to take care of poor little sis and make sure she isn't causing _too many _international crises, the woman can obviously take care of herself. Even more their older brother, Liam, who is as straight-laced as the stick up his arse, as Killian had once put it. While Killian shares with Irene some sort of ancestral impulse for actively seeking out opportunities to be an _ass—_which lead to either 1) almost-wars with small countries (her) or 2) getting into hissy fights with the bloody _British monarchy _(him)—he also shares a love of good form with his brother Liam.

He's grateful for their support, despite the many times he has royally (no pun intended) fucked up his life. Still, between the three of them, Killian is the black sheep.

He's not exactly the brimming picture of bright success.

"Why'd you do that, anyway?" Victor comes back into the room with a soda, still dripping wet in his towel. "Dentist appointment? That's… " he takes a sip as he looks for the right words, "pretty lame. Even by my standards."

"I didn't like the look of the git she was scheduled for a date with. What the bloody kind of name is _Walsh Oz _anyway?" he replies, stoic as he turns back to his laptop. "Her company-mandated dentist appointment was long overdue. I merely pushed for the date."

"You check on her schedule?" Victor is thoroughly amused.

"I keep tabs," he brushes off.

Actually, it's more like _Walsh was the guy who had proposed to and broken the heart of one Emma Swan and I've since decided that the man is not to be trusted and will be monitored closely by me to ensure that he will never again disrespect the woman I've hopeless fallen for, or any consecutive women thereafter, most especially not my sister, _but he does not say this.

He also does not say that he has Walsh's social security number, for "safety purposes".

Victor nods. 'Walsh' _does _sound more like a brand of stove.

"Wait, how did you even—"

"Company systems, mate. If it can't keep me out, I'm not impressed. Then again," he says, typing, "hardly anything can keep me out these days."

"Oh, I forgot," Victor says with a shrug. "You're a pirate."

"That I am."

It's not that he's proud of his work as one of the best pirates in the digital era, it's that _he's one of the best damn pirates in the digital era. _After his brief stint with the Royal Navy (uncanny as it is), Killian Jones aka _Captain Hook_, so named after that worm (_Hookworm)_ he had created several years ago, cooking up a storm and hundreds of thousands of dollars in damage with the shittonne of copyrighted material he had "acquired". (_Looting _was the term they had used, at which point, Killian had looked very pleased and then had proceeded to commend the opposing council for owning a thesaurus. Liam couldn't help the facepalm, and in front of a discreet number of journalists, no less. The newspaper picture of him and his brother, facepalm and all, hangs framed above Killian's desk to this day.) Liam had near _shit himself _from all the trouble of having to keep Killian from a 20-year sentence, he was just short of calling in a favor from the bloody Queen of England; Irene had to change her name just so she wouldn't go down with the ship, so to speak. It was a modest talk of the town, the kind that died a few weeks after it was over.

But that was what seemed to be a lifetime ago, after the whole Milah debacle. Killian is a reformed man.

Perhaps a certain bail bondswoman neighbor has something to do with it.

(Actually, it's more like _Killian is a man whose newfound purpose in life is to live for a certain blonde neighbor, who happens to be his best friend, in the hopes that someday she'll fall in love with him even though he's kind of shit at the whole thing since said neighbor is fucking his college best friend and so, all he can really do is a tentative list of ex-boyfriends and their social security numbers, current whereabouts, credit card purchases and federal records, no big deal._)

Nowadays, he's taken to singing quietly in pubs, writing songs (on occasion; there can only be so many words that rhyme with "green eyes", "golden hair" and "cinnamon"), and hacking scoundrel businesses that are run by scumbag directors. Nothing too big, though, since getting sniffed out by the feds can be a real pain.

Victor gives a shrug while Killian continues to browse through the transposed chords of a Taylor Swift song, because _Robin is a dick _who makes sure Killian makes good on his promises.

Apartment 4a-b-c-d

Regina Mills, CEO of _Storybook Holdings, Ltd., _is nothing but professional.

And her profession? _Power._

She will never tire of the wonderful, wonderful fear that she sees in people's eyes when she would clack her way down the office, or up the elevator, or even to get a bagel outside. There's something divinely _inspired _about wielding power; it's terribly better than sex, if you would ask her, and that's saying quite a lot.

It certainly gives better returns.

But she's _is _getting real tired of the terrible acoustics by her bathroom window, when the sidewalk singer four floors down starts his early morning—_early _morning, for christssakes—acoustic concert. It was a stroke of nasty luck (or maybe the unholy influence of Mr. Gold, _the evil bastard_) that her apartment renovations had put her bathroom window right by the alley that reproduces sound like a goddamn boombox.

She nicks herself on the shin, shaving in her bathtub, as the disembodied (but husky, and maybe hot… _no Regina shut up_) voice suddenly hits a vibrato high as he sings _Bohemian Rhapsody _and that. is. it. This is the last straw.

"Damnit," she mutters as a small drop of blood falls on the foam of the bathtub. In indignation upon realizing that she _won't _be able to wear her Versace to the gala later, not with a nick on her otherwise flawless legs, she stands up suddenly, the sudsy water sloshing in the bathtub. She opens her bathroom window and pops her showercapped head outside to scream "Hey! Some of us have actual lives to live! Stop singing or I'll cut your tongue out!"

The singing abruptly stops.

"Thank you," she says, not anymore a yell because she can't believe that she's been living with that terrible sound for _weeks _now, and all it took was a simple…

The disembodied voice comes back with a vengeance, singing "Bad Day".

She will _end him. _

Ground Floor

Robin is what you could call a _free spirit, _content with nothing but the six strings on his back, and his wonderful skills as a security consultant provided quite freely to those who need it. Of course, his felony record was never quite the handsomest list, but what he has in quantity is _also _quality, if he does say so himself.

So when the woman upstairs starts to yell at him, and he certainly doesn't know what for—he's gotten nothing but smiles and loose change from this lovely community since he got here—he replies with a song and a hope to put her back into a good mood.

Ah, well. The lady probably just hasn't gotten laid in a while.

Well, neither had he, but that's irrelevant. What is that, after all, when compared to music… a poor comparison, he knows, but he'll stand by his ground nonetheless; he doesn't need a woman (certainly not such an _evil queen_) to tell him what to do, no sir. Not what he can do with his voice, and certainly not what he can do with his tongue.

(He snickers because _damn, _if that voice didn't remind him of the pair of impeccable legs, hair like the night, and the _gorgeous ass—ets_… _this is not good Robin stop…_)

He's got his Merry Men, his Roland, and his guitar. Life is good.

"_You had a bad day_… thank you, Belle!" he calls out when the young brunette places a twenty in his open guitar case. The librarian had been one of his more friendly listeners since his stay around the area, and more than once, she's taken to babysitting Roland while he tended to his bar right across the street, _the Merry Men _(formerly _the Jolly Roger_).

"You're welcome. Hey, have you seen Ruby? I saw her panicking earlier."

"Ruby… oh, you mean the lass with the…" Robin, at a lack for descriptors, gestures towards the whole of his face, "…the _red, _sort of, situation?"

"Yeah," Belle replies. Ruby does so like red. (This is an understatement.)

"No, sorry. Haven't seen her."

"Oh, okay. It's just, I've never seen her up so early, so I was concerned. She was in such a hurry, I think she mentioned that she locked her other phone in the flat. And she mentioned something about some lunar eclipse, not sure… something about how today's going to be different or something…"

"Everyday is different, Belle. It's just up to you to determine _how._"

"Ah, there you are again." Belle rolls her eyes. "You sure you're not a poet?" Belle's smile is alluring and maybe a little cheeky, because _maybe _Robin isn't the subtlest of creatures. _Maybe._

"No, Shakespeare I am _not_," Robin replies, a bit flustered because he _has _been working on more than the usual amount of songs lately. "Haven't found my muse yet," he lies. Well, kind of. Truth is, he _has _found his muse. He just hasn't mustered the manly parts necessary to actually _talk _to her yet.

If possible, Belle's smile grows even more ridiculous_._

"Well, you know… _lunar eclipse_," Belle ends with a wink.

Apartment 3a

The faint ringing of the phone stuck between her head and shoulder is as infuriating as the way her stubborn leather boots refuse to cooperate with her feet today. Emma Swan huffs a lock of hair off her face… just in time as she falls sideways on the floor of her bedroom, trying to fit muscled calves inside what seems like the size of a toilet paper tube.

"Damnit!" she huffs. What the hell happened to these boots? She just bought them yesterday!

"Hey, you need help with that?" she hears Neal groan on her bed, half-naked and quarter-awake.

"No, I—_ugh_—I got it," she replies. Though, between her and the boot, she is clearly losing. (What a metaphor for her sad life.) She rolls her eyes when she hears his noncommittal "k", and even then, she knows he's halfway back to sleep.

It's not like she _planned _for these kinds of things to happen; it's just that it's _Neal, _and he's like that Taco Bell obsession: get a craving at 1 am in the morning, but it's unhealthy, it's not good for you, it's not something you want. But damnit, he always shows up at her door and it's like he's _purposefully _shoving it in her face that this was originally _his _apartment, and that he didn't really want to break up with her, and did she miss him, and that he wants them to be together again and _he's sorry, he really is _and all that sappy bullshit.

And, well, it's like pizza. Even though it's not that good, it's still pretty good.

Better than nothing, at least.

God, _when the hell did she become this person?_

It's too early in the morning for this. So, very early, in fact, that magic (or something faintly similar) has wormed itself into her inner workings, compelling her to take that one step she has never dared to take before:

"Hey Neal?"

"Mhmm?" he groans, clearly still partially unconscious.

"Do you love me?"

"Mhmm?"

She sighs because he's not paying attention. If she were smarter than this, she should have taken it for the answer that it actually is.

The phone keeps ringing, and only she can hear.

"Neal?"

"Mhmm?"

"_Answer me._"

"Sorry, what was that?" he says, now half-awake rather than just a quarter.

"I asked you if you love me," Emma says, from where she is still lying on her side on the floor, fingers still poised over the zipper of her boots, head still awkwardly tucked into her shoulder, cradling a call that no one is answering. She has an up-close view of the leg of her side table. It's got a lot of hair stuck underneath. Gross.

She can hear him grow something like self-awareness, but she doesn't hold her breath.

"Water you talking about, of course I love you," he murmurs dismissively.

It's about the same time she hears him that the ringing on the phone on her shoulder stops.

"_Hello, this is Ruby Lucas. I'm not really here right now, but if you wanna, leave a message after the beep!"_

"Did you take my boots? Because _I swear to god—_"

"Whoa, whoa, Emma, I didn't take your boots…" Neal says, suddenly defensive. But she's not talking to him. She stands up and discards her fight with the red leather, smoothening her skirt as she continues to berate Ruby, on record, for accidentally switching up their footwear. Ruby probably mistook her new boots for her old ones.

It was a mistake. We all make mistakes.

And Neal just lied to her right now, but whatever, right?

Just then, Ruby picks up: "Emma? Hey Emma, sorry, but I have teency favor to ask…"

Emma listens to Ruby, and all thoughts of humanity making tolerable mistakes go flying out the window.

"….Ruby, I am late, but I am going to _kill you," _are the last words out of Emma before she shuts her phone and hurries out the door. Neal is still three-quarters-awake, but if he had been paying attention, he would have told Emma that the keys to her buggy are left on her side table.

Oh well. Fate works that way.

~.:.~

The apartment is _scuttling _with people at around this time of the morning. It's just shy of 7:30 am, and see, there are several issues that the people of this apartment have to deal with:

**Issue #1: Teeny Tiny Elevator **

Emma rushes out, shouting for someone to "Hold the elevator please! Hold…" because her room happens to be the farthest along in the corridor.

(It is worth to note that _no one _takes the stairs because Leroy and his band of brothers—like, _the six lot of them, _bless their mother's poor soul—usually camp out at the stairs and leave a _right fucking mess _of McDonald's burger wrappers, straws, food stuffs, etc. The last time someone had tried the stairs, poor Mother Superior, she had slipped and fallen terribly on a whole splotch of _condiments. _Such an _unholy amount _of ketchup was involved that Tink had been rendered unconscious at the sight. It was safe to say, then, that the stairs are _not_ the preferred route during the daily morning rush.)

Dr. Hopper sticks his umbrella out to keep the doors from closing, so Emma can hurriedly squeeze herself somewhere within the tiny box.

_The Sound of Music _plays in the background as the elevator groans slowly downwards, slowly, _slowly…_

_"The hills are alive… with the sound of music… ah, ah-ah ah…"_

Belle is in the corner, cramped in the 90-degree angle along with Dr. Hopper, who is carrying Pongo, whose tail is swishing happily by Sneezy's face, who is trying not to eject mucous all over Granny, who is _carrying a rifle _carefully pointed upwards, right next to a particularly stoic Mr. Gold, who is staring at Belle (of course) while sneaking glances at Cora, who refuses to acknowledge the other people in the small space. There's Victor, right beside Graham, and both their aftershaves are clashing _horrifically _against Irene's nostrils, but she's too preoccupied with looking fantastically lesbian to give either man a piece of her mind. There's Ariel, lovely Ariel, who manages to smile at one of the maintenance guys beside her. (Emma tries to recall what his name was, but she _did _associate it with the weather… or season or something.) All in all, the elevator is like a square can of sardines, nothing more than the usual.

When finally the elevator groans to a stop, after the usual prying open of its doors, it spills its contents onto the ground floor. Everyone in their own little stories and lives and places to be and things to do. Emma proceeds to the basement parking, but it's only once she's reaching towards the door handle of her "pee-yellow" buggy (as her son so fondly describes it) does she realize that she's an idiot.

_God, I hate myself._

Sighing, she calls the one person she is close enough to ask a favor from, this early in the day.

~.:.~

Killian Jones, man of principle that he is, never picks up his phone before 10 AM. 11, if it's the weekend.

That is, unless it's ringing _that _ringtone.

The sound of his assigned tone for her cuts him short of "_blew me to places I've never been_". His heart short-circuits. (It usually does, when it comes to her.) He smiles when he realizes what time of the day it is, and picks up before the second ring.

"You do realize what time it is, love," he answers.

"_I know, I'm sorry. It's just… I don't wanna go back upstairs."_

There's a subtle tiredness in the stretch of her syllables, but he smiles anyway because it's _her _voice_. _He sets his guitar aside, stands up to go to her apartment before even asking: "Ah, forgot our keys again, didn't we?"

"_You know me so well."_

"Well, I did tell you, love. If you'd just live with me, I'd be able to remind you." He cuts it short before adding _every morning that would I wake up next to you, if you'd let me._

"_You and Victor every day? I think I'll pass, thanks." _

He locks up his own apartment as he saunters next door to hers. (He wants to tell her that Victor was never part of the equation.) Alas, she hangs up with a brief "thank you", and he feels another jolt take hold of his heart.

Ah, love. Quite the nasty little condition he has.

He opens her apartment with the spare key she's given him, only to find out it's not locked. He walks on inside like he owns the place, proceeds to the bedroom where she always keeps her buggy's keys on the bedside table (and a damn _miracle _she doesn't actually have Alzheimer's, seeing as she forgets them even though she _wakes up next to them every day_). He stops short when he sees the man right inside her bedroom.

"Oh, hey, Killian," Neal says, shirtless and zipping up his pants just as Killian reaches the doorframe. And just like that, he's dosed with reality.

Ah, _love_. Truly is a bastard of a condition.

"Neal," sounds outstandingly neutral as neutral can be. Of course, he already knew Emma and Neal were a… _thing, _in the remotest of sense, but to see a visual reminder that these two people, his college best friend and _the love of his pathetic life, _have been sharing a bed together is like having a fork duck-taped to your hand, then plunging it inside a live electrical socket.

It's not _bloody agony, _not at all.

"Did Emma let you in?" Neal asks, looking around for his discarded shirt.

"No, she, ah…" he picks up the buggy's keys from her side table and holds it up to Neal as an explanation, flashing what he hopes is an acceptable smile.

"Ah, I see," Neal says. "She always forgets her car keys."

"Aye. That she does," Killian replies, but what he doesn't say is _If you knew that all along, why didn't you remind her? _

"Wait, so, she called you to bring her keys? Why didn't she call me?" Neal suddenly asks.

_…Good question, mate._

"Must've not wanted to disturb you," Killian offers, giving the other man a pat on the shoulder.

"Huh. Yeah. She's nice like that," Neal says, clearly placated by the thought, and he continues to rummage around for his missing shirt. Killian starts towards the door, but the insufficiency of the word "nice" to describe Emma Swan has him turning on his heel, midstride.

"Neal?"

"Yeah?"

"I've got a question for you, and please, don't take this the wrong way, mate, but…" he hesitates, but not long enough for his common sense to catch up to him:

"Do you love her?"

Neal is, understandably, choked by the query. "Sorry, _what_?_"_

They are close enough that Neal would know he's not being an ass, as he usually is. They're practically _brothers; _forged by their fathers' very apparent lack of parenting skills, and lack of _presence _in the general sense. College studs with deep, familial emotional scars must stick together, after all. So it's just a question. A non-threatening—almost _gentle—_question from one friend to another. That is _all._

"Emma. Do you love her?"

"You know, it's funny, 'cause that's the exact same thing that she asked me this morning," Neal replies, going the safe route and avoiding the question when he finds his shirt and throws it over his head.

Killian manages a tight smile before going on his way to give Emma her keys.

~.:.~

He gets to the basement and sees her there, arms crossed, leaning on her "piss-yellow" buggy (a term he had accidentally dropped around her son, and it had been an enduring inside joke between him and the lad ever since). She smiles when she sees him approaching, a small upward quirk of her lips that he has come to know as the smile she reserves for him. It says _I don't want to seem too grateful but I appreciate you anyway. _

(It's not exactly _I bloody love you, _but when it comes to Emma, he will take what he can get.)

"Thanks—" she reaches out for the keys he's dangling, but he quickly pulls them out of her reach.

"You know the rules, Swan," he taunts, and he thinks that her succeeding change of expression is utterly _adorable_.

"Um, no I don't? What rules?" She reaches for the keys and misses again_, _her expression sour. He does so love that he's that much taller than her.

"Aye, well, you disturbed me during a particularly productive period of artistic expression. Also, I'm not your cabin boy. So I've taken it upon myself to"—she makes another go at it; he smiles brightly at her attack on his personal space—"make sure there's something in it for me this time," he jests, but she crosses her arms.

"What do you want, Hook?" sounds tired all over again, sharpening a dull ache he didn't realize he was feeling. At once, all thoughts of joking run away with the wind.

Years of knowing her has gotten him in touch with the fickle ecosystem of her emotional walls, and something has her off balance today.

From the moment she had caught him when he "skipped" bail so many years ago, and every succeeding moment since, he's grown to love every part of her. Even the parts that require careful navigating. _Especially _the parts that require careful navigating. He's ex-navy after all, and she is his sea. So he steps into her personal space, a privilege he has earned as her best friend, to be used only in emergencies.

He feels this to be an emergency.

"What's the matter, Emma?" he all but whispers, gently placing the keys in her palm without once breaking gaze. He hopes—he _knows—_she can see his concern. But what he hopes she _doesn't _see is the longing, the pain, and the tiny, scribbled footnote on his heart, declaring him to be hers for all eternity.

(Or maybe he hopes she _does _see, for once, the rather large, Emma-shaped hole he carries.)

She doesn't answer, but her expression shifts just a little.

_Please, tell me. I don't like seeing you like this._

He can smell the coconut scent of her favorite shampoo, can see the slight dilation of her pupils even in the dim lighting, and he'd give his left hand to be able to move just a little bit closer.

She looks away, and he knows she wants to tell him.

"Is it about Neal?" he ventures, as careful as he can be.

Alas, the sudden smile she graces him tells him he's hit a nerve, and she's suddenly hastily thanking him and going inside her little car and zooming off, and it's not until she's completely out of sight does he realize he was holding his breath.

He should write a book. He'll call it "How to Stay Sane After Years of Pining for Emma Swan." He'll preface it with a spoiler:

_You bloody can't._

* * *

><p><em>AN: Posted this a while back, but accidentally deleted it, but now posting it again and next chapter to come. Dipping my toe into CS because I miss writing haha. :) Reviews much appreciated! Bonus points to who can guess the chapter title references. :) Bonus points too to whoever can guess what other show I'm picking characters from haha! <em>

_ps. Working still on my others fics which will NEVER BE ABANDONED. :D_


	2. How I Met Your (Obnoxious) Brother

FRIDAY EVENING:

It is 6 pm when Emma Swan enters the Merry Men. There is literally no one inside the bar except the bartender, but since on the door hangs the "open" sign, she's hoping they take her money, and she gets her alcohol.

Tink, the lovely Aussie bartender and local love guru, is sighing before Emma even plops herself on the stool.

"Bad day?" she asks, polishing a shot glass before filling it with Emma's signature favorite: rum. Emma takes said shot with an expression akin to seeing a Beiber poster before handing it back for a refill.

"Pan was a little shit, as per usual," Emma starts, wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. "I swear to god, just because he's this investment analysis prodigy doesn't mean I can't kick his juvenile ass back to England. Is Robin here yet?" This last question happens right before another shot of rum.

"No, I'm the first one here, Emma. But you already knew that." Then, after a beat: "Something's bothering you." Tink pauses her shotglass-wiping to look at Emma properly. To which, the other blonde tries her best to look complete disaffected. Her _Who? Me? _expressionmight fool others, but not Tink.

"Yeah, you. You seem…" and then, like an actual proper _fairy, _Tink's face lights up like she remembered where she placed the Holy Grail. "Oh my god, Emma."

"What?"

"Emma, I'm so sorry."

Tink's face looks utterly _tragic._

"What for? I just got here," Emma replies, poker. Tink reaches out for Emma's hand on the table and gives it a squeeze. She'd appreciate it if she were right now at a funeral, but she's really not.

"I'm sorry you found out this way," Tink comments, returning to her wiping. Emma's third shot of rum is poised just before her lips, her movements frozen.

"Okay, _what?"_

"About Neal," Tink continues like the weather report. Emma is not able to complete her alcoholic motions.

"How did you—"

"When they say that I have a nasty accurate love meter," Tink says, reaching up on her tiptoes to try to place the wine glasses in the cabinet, "that wasn't a joke."

"Yeah, but that's the problem," Emma says, bitterness seeping out of every word. "It's _not _love. Not when he lies to me like that." And there goes her third shot. It burns down her throat. She likes the way it complements the emotional ache in her chest.

"Did you hope it was?"

Emma doesn't reply, but she knows the answer.

They sigh together.

"So, Henry's not here to be your soundboard, and now you're drowning your sorrows in rum," Tink comments.

"Sounds about right," is Emma's reply as she slides the shot glass to Tink yet again.

"And yet," Tink says with carefully measured tones, filling the glass with Emma's fourth shot, "how come I feel like you're only giving me half of the story?" If Tink slides her gaze towards the rum as she says this, Emma pretends not to notice. She downs the gulp as swiftly as possible.

"You got anything stronger?"

"Than rum? Oh, you don't need that." This time, Tink's smile _brims _with the secrets to the moon landing. "And it's not the rum you need either, Emma."

Emma doesn't follow that up. Emma doesn't want to know.

And honestly, Emma is slightly scared at the accuracy of Tink's "love meter". For a moment, she wonders about the range of Tink's meter when it comes to other men. And if those men happen to be devilishly handsome pirates, well.

Then she's a legit princess from a far-off land.

"By the way," Emma starts (_so _not smooth enough but she hopes Tink plays along anyway), "Have you seen Ruby? She called me this morning, told me to bring the first-aid kit I always keep in my car. She said she needed Band-Aids at the diner for an emergency."

"You actually bought that?"

"Not for a second, but you know Ruby. She wasn't at the diner, though. Bitch cost me two hours at work. Pan was ecstatic."

Tink shoots her a sympathetic smile, but tries to add Coke to her rum. Tink knows a change topic when she hears one.

Shuffles and conversation start to fill the bar, the soft glow of alcohol haze crowding Emma's vision as she continues to feed on rum and coke, to the infinite (but ultimately futile) concern of Tink. The wood beneath her forearm warms from contact, her shotglass cold from getting refilled over and over. A few minutes, an hour, she doesn't register time passing.

It's common knowledge that she and the "pirate" are quite close friends. The thing with their apartment building is that it's not just a bunch of random strangers thrown inside four walls to sleep and eat in. The building is a community, and Killian is more than her neighbor.

He's her friend.

(Arguably her only friend, her best friend, her companion, her _person. _He's always been there for her, never against her, except when she's against herself. He's the one she calls when Henry has no babysitter, and he doesn't need to know that he's on speed dial on her phone. She doesn't mind that he always depletes her ice cream stock, because she knows he brings home a tub of Cherry Garcia whenever Henry comes home from camp or school. He has keys to her apartment, and she has keys to his.)

(To him, she is an open book. A damn hardcover pop-up sitting on his coffee table, he doesn't even need to read her to know what's going on. Case in point: this morning.)

(And maybe, deep down, she hates that he has always been close, so close, _too close_. Which means something if anything happens to him. To them.)

(It means he's part of her, and she doesn't want to mess that up.)

(So, no. She's not falling in love with him. Not if she can help it.)

(However, "is falling" is unfortunately very different from "has fallen".)

Emma tries her hand at the dartboard. She misses terribly, and in more ways than one. Graham snickers in the corner, and August (the maintenance guy) gives her a soft smile. Emma smiles back. If she's thinking of a scruffy, dark-haired Brit with a penchant for music and jello, she doesn't let on.

…

He's two hours late when he shows up at The Merry Men. It's near 12PM and Robin is a little annoyed, which simply means that there's a little "annoyed" tick to his jaw, but that's about it. Killian isn't threatened (Robin's about as aggressive as toilet paper), but he apologizes profusely anyway.

(Irene had super-glued the buttons of his favorite vest together, because, when it comes to sibling-to-sibling retaliation, they are both actual five-year-olds.)

He goes over to the little corner, where the mike stand and little spotlights are. A few patrons start to clap, and Graham, recently returned from Oxford, gives him a pat on the back as he walks by.

He knows Emma well enough to not expect her here, but he scans around for her anyway. (He will never not look for her.)

He doesn't see her, so his smile is a little less genuine. He greets everyone, who respond in kind, and explains that he had lost a bet to the owner, and thus his song choices for tonight. He starts with "You Belong With Me" (with the original wording because it's part of the deal), and dedicates the song to her, but only in his mind and heart.

…

"What, Ruby, you'll have to slow do—I don't understand what you're saying!"

Emma presses a hand to her warm forehead. It's been ten minutes on the phone with a frantic Ruby, and in those ten minutes, she has had a total of 0% understanding of what her friend is trying to say.

Not to mention that her cognitive function is a little hampered right now.

Then Ruby starts crying, and Emma snaps up to attention.

"Whoa okay, slow down. Slow… _What?!"_

Emma steadies herself on a nearby wall, avoiding the garbage here at the back of the bar outside. Despite all that she has had to drink so far, her only thought is that she is _so not _drunk enough for this shit. Not today, at least, not yet.

…

He's too focused with "Everything has Changed" that, for a few minutes, he doesn't register the blond that came in from the back door, and is now sitting by the counter. When he does register the blond hair and red jacket, though, he stumbles through the second to the last verse, before cutting it off near abruptly, and shooting Robin a look.

Years of experience as semi-professional musicians allowed a solid transition from Killian's voice to Robin's, with Robin taking the spotlight and the audience barely noticing the unscripted change. But Killian sets his guitar aside, and walks over to behind the blond.

She has yet to actually turn her face to him, but he knows her inside-out, upside-down.

And she is quite drunk.

"Had quite the drinks tonight, haven't we, love?"

He says this as he takes the seat next to her, and she chokes on her margarita (with _three olives, _that's a bad sign). She wipes the corner of her mouth with her hand, but when she turns to him, he loses his smile.

"I think we've had enough for tonight, Em—"

She shoots a finger at his face when he attempts to remove her margarita, so he lets her drink it all in one go.

Emma has always been stubborn. He knew this when he fell in love with her. So really, he cannot gripe about the situation, because this is his life and such are his choices.

When she sets the glass down and looks at him properly, she smiles a perfectly hammered smile.

"Stay with me a while?" she requests, all dimples and glossy eyes because _bloody hell, something is terribly wrong, _and she's playing the Happy Denial Game.

"What happened?"

"Long day." It sounds far too chirpy for her. There is no conceivable way he is letting her out of his sight tonight.

He stays there while she talks. Random ramblings of a less-than-sober woman, at first, but they've danced this song before. She always starts with insignificant things, like the dry cleaning, or some joke Henry said. He tries to curb her alcohol intake, but she swats him away every time. So he counts her drinks instead, but doesn't take her choice from her. She talks about Peter, Henry's time at summer camp, her work. Wide gestures mix with her carefree smiles, and he smiles alike, feeling himself fall so hard with every crinkle of her now-red nose. Finally, after approximately two hours of listening to her and making sure that Tink replaces her beer completely with iced tea, she opens up:

"Ruby's pregnant."

He takes in her timbre, the fading smile.

"What happened?"

"Well, _captain," _she slurs with a twinkling eye and unsteady hand on the counter. "When a man and a woman are attracted to one another—"

"You know what I mean, Swan."

He hates that her joyous state falters, but she needs to get this out, and this is what he's here for.

"She hasn't said. But… you know…"

Killian does know, that Emma's roommate and his have been quite the close match these last few months. "Aye."

"How does—does Victor feel about it?" Emma asks, her syllables tripping.

"Not sure he knows yet, I haven't a word from him."

"Hmm."

The silence that follows feels like a friend.

"Emma, Victor is many things, but he's not a coward. And he loves her. I assure you, he _will _take care of her. I'll make sure of that."

When she turns to him, she looks to the point of breaking. He doesn't know why or what for, but seeing Emma Swan emotional has always been number one on his list of "Things That Will Always Hit Me".

"I'll… hold you to that," she tells him, barely above a whisper. He can smell rum on her breath, and he hates so much that he had taught her that. He sighs.

"Aye. But first, let's get you home."

He walks with her stumbling form back to the apartment, ready always to keep her steady. He'd be lying if he said he didn't want to just take her over his shoulder and carry her up. It would be so much easier than this drunken tango. It's like playing Emma Jenga, and it is a _pain in the damned arse _to cross the street when you're guiding a splendidly drunk and stubborn lass.

"Watch your step, love."

"Shut, I'm not your—_hic—_love."

_Actually… _he wants to say, but he keeps his mouth shut, as she wishes.

By some miracle they make it to the third floor of their apartment a few blocks away. She smiles up at him happily as she looks for the keys in her bag, standing in front of her apartment.

"Thanks for the, um, the…business?…"

"The company. You do mean the company."

"Yeah, that's the word." Emma Swan is surprisingly comprehendible when drunk, a trait he has always admired about her. She tells him goodnight, so he gets ready to go inside his apartment…

But he first waits until she's safely inside hers. He watches as she struggles with her bag, then her keys, but what has him stepping beside her is her sniffing. She's still sobbing slightly when he takes the mess of keys in her hands and pulls her gently into a hug. He feels her sigh into his shoulder, still trying to stifle the little bits of crying that leak out.

"He lied to me," she whispers as he keeps her in his arms. "He… I asked if he loved me…"

"I know."

She looks at him then. "What? How?"

"Swan…"

_I love you. _

"If it's not him, then it isn't. Don't cry, love. He's not your happy ending."

She falls back into him. He keeps her, keeps his arms around her and weaves his fingers in her hair. She grows heavy in his arms, sleep dragging her weary body down. Eventually, he just picks her up and lays her on his bed while he prepares to sleep in the couch nearby. He won't let her alone tonight.

And if he whispers something before closing the light, maybe he hopes she stirs, hopes that she hears:

"He may not, but I do, Emma. Goodnight, love."

.:.

Emma awakes to the sound of knocking.

Slash that. More like _pounding, _matched with the hushed but panicky sounds of a disagreeing couple outside the apartment, shuffling feet, and something frying. The cacophony of noises mixed with her apparent hangover is a serious pain in her being_, _and she wrinkles her face in disgust, eyes completely closed in case she can still miraculously go back to dreamland (and forget everything that happened yesterday).

"Ah, she's finally up. Morning, love. Was expecting you were dead."

"Oh, haha," she deadpans, but the curl of her lips tell a different story.

The sound of hisvoice has that effect, and she has long since stopped trying to pretend otherwise. Only then does she register heaven in the form of the bacon scenting the atmosphere. Mhmm… yes, good. Bacon for breakfast is good…

Except she doesn't have bacon in her fridge.

"Killian…" she starts, but then it sinks in. "I'm not in my apartment, am I."

"'Fraid not, love."

"Um… why?" she responds slowly, because hangovers are an impediment to cognitive function.

"Well," Killian says and already she can hear the nonsense he's about to spew as an explanation. "Funny story, that. Last night was quite the adventure. You completely abused your power and held me at gun point, demanding entry to my humble abode—"

"Killi—"

Hi gives her a sly grin, the one that is both the annoying substitute of a half-assed apology for teasing her (and in the _morning _no less), as well as the _I told you so _that he never quite says, ever.

Emma winces with an expression well translated into _motherfucking ouch. _She is way too old for these hangovers. At which point, Killian promptly bounds towards her from the kitchen holding a glass of his premade _Swangover _(Yes, he absolutely spent time thinking of that horrendous name for a super secret hangover concoction. No, Emma does _not _approve one bit).

"Here," he says while nudging the offensive (but quite effective, though she'd never tell him that) drink under her wrinkled takes the proffered glass and chugs down two gulps, looking up at him with an incredulous eyebrow. _There. You happy now?_

His happy grin says _Yes, very much._

(He likes taking care of her in his own, little ways. Emma would be damned twice to hell and back before she ever admits to needing care, or liking his attentiveness and kindness even. She also knows he _loves _taking care of Henry, if the never-ending stock of Cherry Garcia in her fridge is any indication, because he keeps buying them but he doesn't even like cherries. He's practically the non-official babysitter/best friend of her almost-teenager, which is, of course, kind of creepy in how she's totally okay with it, never mind that Killian is technically a walking, fully-operational _hacker_.)

("Pirate" is what he proudly calls himself but that just gives her a stupidly romantic image of him in Victorian boots and a leather coat and a hat with a big feather and _no._)

The two of them are startled as the pounding outside gets ridiculously louder, and if Emma trusted her brain more fully today, she'd almost swear she knew that voice…

"What's that ruckus?" Killian says even as he moves towards his door, "Kiss the Cook" apron and all.

Then, and _only then, _does the familiar voice _click _in her mind.

_Oh shit, it's today._

"Killian, no—" she starts to say as she gets up to stop him from opening the door, but he does. And, there they are.

There are three things that happen when the door opens and the two parties meet each other eye to eye:

Emma, complete with disheveled hair and overnight makeup, comes face to face with her brother David and his pregnant wife Mary Margaret, who are knocking on _her_ empty apartment's door. How delightful.

David, upon seeing Emma, now takes a good look at the male company right beside Emma, who is wearing a "Kiss the Cook" apron (which David probably reads as "Punch this Asshole" if his expression reads right).

The last thing that happens is that David's face turns more sour than Henry's homemade cheese project, because...

"Jones?!" David says in all shades of accusing, shocked, and utterly mortified. Killian's response is proper bewilderment, and after that, horror, and then a rather resigned smirk.

"Ah, if it isn't Charming," Killian manages to say, and it totally does not sound confused, not at all.

"Emma?" David turns to Emma.

"Um… Hi?" Damn. That sounded more guilty than expected.

"Oh." Mary Margaret seems to have gone for the safe response.

And after an awkwardly pregnant silence, "Tell me you gave me the wrong apartment number," David says to her, and she _really _wished she could.

"Uh…"

"Wait, d'you know each other?" Killian asks, resuming his bewilderment.

"…Ish?" Emma is _so _not making things better, stupid hangover.

"Ish?!"

"David, hon, calm down…"

"Wait, wait, I'm sorry," Emma says, shushing everybody down and taking responsibility for her stupid life choices because _Oh my god, why did I have to forget it was today?! _"Killian, this is David, my brother, and his wife Mary Margaret. David, this is Kil—"

"I know," David says, crossing his arms and taking on a stance that Emma remembers to be his big-brother-is-protective stance.

"You do?"

"Well that explains a few striking similarities…" Killian says, clearly still processing the situation.

"You wanna tell her who I am, or should I?" David addresses Killian and elicits a wince from the pirate.

"Okay what's happening here?" Being confused and feeling shitty, Emma berates herself. _Top of the morning, isn't it?_

"Well…" Killian scratches the back of his ear and _oh no, she knows that gesture. _"I've had the previous pleasure of working with your wonderful brother a few years back as the subject of his… mild misgivings…"

"You mean my client's case against your illegal hacking and piracy?"

Client? Case? Whoa whoa _whoa…_

"Ah, so you see. You _have _been using a thesaurus," Killian says and _Oh my god..._

"Wait, what?" Emma spurts out. She looks at David and all is unnervingly, disturbingly clear. "Oh my god, David… You were with the opposing council?!"

Killian looks physically _pained _to hear it out loud. David looks emotionally challenged trying to keep his composure. Mary Margaret looks very pregnant and shocked.

And if Emma had thought the hangover was giving her a shitty day, it's a fucking Cherry Garcia compared to _this _revelation.

_Damn, it's gonna be a long weekend._


End file.
